Maven Brewbane's page

Maven is, by more discerning accounts, a waste of good looks. Though she inherited poise, stature, and a somewhat striking countenance from her parents, she does little to emphasize it, and is more comfortable in heavy gloves and leather breeches than anything resembling a dress. Her red hair is kept tied back, save for her braids, and her skin is a ruddy tan from countless hours near the forge fires. With all her time swinging a hammer, she is in fit shape with well defined muscles and figure that make her male and female peers jealous. When she isn't performing a service for the clergy or expecting battle, she dresses simply, and keeps her smithing apron handy at all times, even away from her anvil. If forewarned of a journey or a fight, however, she dons a finely worked steel breastplate of her own make, and hoists her massive two handed hammer, nicknamed "Drowbreaker" over her right shoulder--sometimes slightly clumsily.

For all her strength, good looks and talents, Maven is shortspoken and rather introverted. She lacks no manners, but simply isn't assertive in conversation. She admits to having little real-world experience outside the forge, the lessons of Torag, and defending her home and neighbors against the drow, but she is a consummate crafter at heart, and has an eye for finely worked items and the techniques used to make them. Onlookers will note she is eager to speak at length of crafting and forging, but simply has little to offer sophisticated chat outside her expertise. Canny observers will note that, despite her decisiveness in battle, she is, against all her protests, simply shy. Even her family will jest of it, much to her chagrin.

Maven Brewbane is a contradiction from a clan of contradictions. While her family was only less enamored of strong drink than her cousins, she never could stand the stuff, for reasons beyond all Dwarven comprehension. She inherited the robust health and chiseled good looks of her parentage, but none of their outgoing charm, much to the dismay of every eligible dwarven bachelor. Although Torag's calling found her early, it was not a voice, or a light, as a typical priest might describe; what she heard was the clanging of metal. Dwarven hymns bored her; she was always more enraptured by the ringing of steel on anvil, and the crackling of a forge's coals. Once she came of age to enter the clergy, she answered the call, not with a prayer, but with a hammer.

Working a smithy came naturally to Maven; the glow of the fire, the rhythmic peal of iron and steel on black anvils, and the almost purifying heat of the forge brought her a sense of balance and calm that she just didn't find in much else.

Fate, however, is rarely so generous with life's callings, and Maven was sorely tested When the meteor of Kyonin fell. Devastation of elven lands forced refugees to take shelter, and Maven's hand was put to work. Healing for the wounded was only the first of concerns for her new neighbors. New accomodations needed to be built, and those elves who volunteered in the defense of the realm needed new armaments. Had she only the time, Maven would have gladly forged a sword for every newcomer...but time was not on her side.

When the drow first struck, Maven found opportunity to test her other talents in battle. Though she was first and foremost concerned with treating the wounded as they came in, she was forced to take up arms when a group of saboteurs targeted her medical station. She fought with enough zeal to make her ancestors proud, but was dismayed when her shield was torn from her arm and her hammer splintered under the ferocity of drow blades. Forced into a corner, she reached for the only weapon nearby: a massive hammer, carried by an unconscious Dwarven warrior, with a handle as tall as herself and a head twice the size of her own skull.

Though she'd never wielded a weapon so large before, she knew better than to second guess fate. Her smithing arms found the weight and balance to their liking. Torag was surely with her, for as skilled as the saboteurs were, no drow could evade the sheer size and mass of such a mighty weapon, and in her desperate fury, Maven found satisfaction in a new sound: the crunching of drow bones.

Ultimately, the engagement favored the Dwarves, and Maven was praised for her valor and fortitude in the aftermath, especially by the injured patients who were conscious enough to see her fight. The owner of the great hammer found his opportunity to meet her in the following weeks, and proposed marriage outright, offering the hammer itself as a wedding gift. Maven was naturally dumbstruck at first, but after regaining her composure and considering the life that would await, she declined. She knew she had little to offer a husband, and too much to accomplish in her life's work; to say nothing of the fact that he was still little more than a stranger to her. She did have one thing to exchange thanks for, however: his weapon had inspired her, and she had begun work on one of her own. Upset at how easily her previous armaments had been destroyed, she found a resurging need to raise the fires, pound metal and shape earth. Crafting her new weapon was simple enough; a steel block atop a wide, sturdy stick was far from the most complicated thing she'd ever made. Training with it proved to be a new challenge amongst all her duties, however. Swinging around a weapon as long as one is tall requires more room than the norm, and her spatial awareness came at the cost of more than one cracked wall and bloodied nose.

Amongst the troubles of her generation, Maven was among the last to be informed that Hraggir Skuldafn, eldest son of his line, and master of coin for all Highhelm, had passed. Though she never knew him personally, and Grundinnar, Dwarven god of friendship and loyalty, was not her primary patron, She was struck by the desire to craft something for the funeral. She set aside her projects, and set to pounding out a gift worthy of Dwarven royalty. Though she had been lately informed, she was still able to surprise the clergy with her finished work in time for the burial. The hammer, carved with intricate scenes of Skuldafn sons in battle, was weighty, even by Dwarven standards, but balanced perfectly in a strong hand. The shield, flawlessly polished and emblazoned with the Skuldfan's family crest, made a brighter reflection of even the darkest features. She carefully wrapped her gift and presented it to the clergy with her request to deliver it for the funeral, and reluctantly returned to the forge, despite the urging of the priesthood that she should present it herself. She didn't know why she hesitated to join the festivities, but she felt that her presence was about to be needed at the forge now, more than ever...